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Archive for the ‘Game’ Category

The Winner Effect is the cognitive key to unleashing the Latent Alpha in every beta male. The term was entered into the Chateau lexicon via this post about the existence of an “alpha male switch” in mice:

Intriguingly, the experience of winning appeared to leave an imprint on the mice, making them more assertive, even when their brains were no longer being artificially controlled. They were found to be more combative in a second scenario in which they competed to occupy the warm corner in a cage with an ice-cold floor.

“We observed that not all the mice returned to their original rank,” said Hu. “Some mice [did], but some of them had this newly dominant position.”

The scientists described this as the “winner effect”, hinting that there may be a grain of truth in the self-help mantra “fake it ‘til you make it”

Imprinting is a synonym for social priming. Both terms describe how extrinsic alterations in one’s behavior can leave a lasting effect on one’s intrinsic mentality. In laybro language: Fake it till you create it. If you assume the trappings of alpha male posture and body language and attitude and verbal terseness, you will neurally metamorphose into the alpha you mimic. Game is the elevation of a man from beta status to alpha status, and it provides a long-term boost almost the equal of the temporary boost it gives to a man’s SMV.

This is the Winner Effect benefit of Game: the more alpha maleness you project, the more positive attention you’ll get from women, and the more this feeling of winning will embed itself as a semi-permanent feature of your limbic landscape.

Experiences have consequences. If your experiences are a B(eta) side compendium of rejection, you’ll grow bitter about women and skeptical of your ability to attract women. But once you’ve tasted the power surge of testosterone-y glory that accompanies social mastery and the glow of being the locus of female desire, your brain will be reconfigured to a higher alpha plane of functioning, supercharging a positive feedback loop of continued alphatude, winning, and womanizing.

Whether you are besting men or bedding women, the Winner Effect lingers. Don’t misunderstand; The Winner Effect requires steady inputs to achieve an acceptable consistency in output. Persuading one plain jane to sleep with you will produce a Little Winner Effect that may last a whole week, or until a real hottie brushes aside your advance. To really exploit the Winner Effect, you need to build up a reserve of psychological capital, and the surest route to that state of mind is through the hearts of multiple women of increasing beauty.

A lesson for the excitable betas: One girlfriend or wife does not a Rico Suave make. One kiss close does not a loverboy make. One same night lay does not a ladykiller make.

One girlfriend is certainly better than no girlfriend, but to scale the heights of the sexual market and banish the depressive beta male within always threatening to end the party, you’ll need a C.V. of snapper hauling history. Success breeds success, winning begets winning.

Think of it this way: Each new bang secures a slightly elevated SMV rank for a man. If you’re incel, one bang with a mousy nerd girl will fill your jewels with juice and your shuffle with swagger, but it won’t turn you into a Casanova. Bang another, better lo0king girl within a reasonable time frame of the first girl, and your balls will grow two more sizes. Now you’re less beta than you were after banging the first girl, and the Winner Effect lingers a little longer. Bang yet another girl, even hotter, and your Inner Beta is shrunk again while your Nascent Alpha has hit its pubertal stride.

After every bang and new girl, you will “reset” to a less beta/submissive and a more alpha/dominant psychological position once the penumbra of Winner Effect has worn off your post-coitally frazzled ganglia. And the time it takes for the Winner Effect to wear off will increase with each cuntquest. Nirvaja is reached when the Winner Effect is a permanent fixture of your everyday emotional state, and picking up women becomes as eventful as grocery shopping. You expect food to be on the shelves, and enough money in your pocket to purchase what you need.

From a personal standpoint, I can vouch for the Winner Effect. Bedding women lends an air of inevitably and invincibility to a man’s desirability, which translates as an unstoppable confidence in the field. But these romantic adventures tend to come in bunches. It’s the nature of the mating arena. One six month stretch I had tore my way through fifteen women; then the well tapped out and the two months that followed were high and dry. The Inner Beta creeped up on me, and I could’ve succumbed to a longer bout of tingle-killing self-doubt if I hadn’t already had a vajfap sheet a mile long upon which to calm my emotional chaos.

The danger that lurks for all men who rely heavily on interpersonal qualities (rather than, say, a billion dollars) for projecting alluring masculinity is that there is an equal and opposite reaction for every action. The Winner Effect can easily yield to the Loser Rut if you are a weak-willed sort. If you are accustomed to a regular stream of prime pussy gracing your gonads and suddenly suffer a dip in fortunes, then a natural and brief interregnum can seem like a lasting catastrophe. A negative reinforcement can set up that quickly exacerbates what would normally be a tiny disturbance in your force into a cataclysmic referendum on your seductive prowess.

Put your faith in the Winner Effect, but temper your zeal with a commonsensical appreciation of the likely ruts you’ll endure along your journeys in the world of women. If you have a level head and aren’t given to hysterical self-appraisals every time you experience a setback, then Game will serve you as a lifelong friend. For this reason, the womanizers I have admired the most were those men whose quality of conquest was nearly matched by their consistency of conquest. That’s how I knew they had achieved the equivalent of Chateau lordship. Every man experiences ruts, but only a few men gaze up from within their ruts and see an opportunity to climb to a new zenith.

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I have a shirt that is Pure Shitlord Energy. Its pec-framed artistry is set to maximum triggering; no fatty, frump. or fug SJW can see it without shaking violently on the inside. I wore this shirt recently at an outdoor event filled with the libbiest libshits, and every SJWhale and problem glasses fishmouth snarled as I passed by them. But the hotties….woowee they smiled and loitered in my vicinity. The beauty of the shirt is in its humor. The message is in-your-face antediluvian alphatude coated with a soothingly humorous shell.

Shitcocking serves three useful purposes:

  1. It filters the noxious cunts from bang consideration
  2. It attracts the curious cuties
  3. It provokes curious cutie shit tests that allow you to demonstrate your grace under pressure

It seems the HSMV girls relish the triggering. They get a kick out of a man who triggers them; this is a stark contrast to the puritans and schoolmarms and twatalitarians who can’t tolerate dissent from their straitjacketed, dreary world view, and frown and scowl at any man who dares mock their prudery.

The catch is that if you’re gonna shitcock, you had better be fearless. The second you disclose through word or body twitch the slightest doubt and discomfort with your chosen form of shitcockery, the girls will eat you alive. Even the once-curious cuties. But if you are overflowing with overconfidence, the girls worth your attention will reel from sudden blasts of arousal. They will poke and prod, but it will all be done with a presumption of your attractiveness. Poking and prodding is a good thing; it’s when they frown and look the other way that you’ll know you rubbed their hindfur against the grain.

Mass triggering a large public gathering of shitlib cunts is one of life’s finer pleasures. But doing so while feminine fillies flirt with you, and your un-wipeable smirk steals the show, is a sensual shiv incomparable. If you’ve got the cahones, one mesmerizing shirt can substitute for one hundred cold approaches.

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Trump delivered a vivisectionist’s neg of Emmanuel Maricon’s granny wife with this slow-acting venom of a backhanded compliment:

Trump, to Brigitte Macron: “You’re in such great shape!”

A plausibly deniable shiv that is at once flattering and ego-deflating. A perfect teasing set-up to have a woman swoon for your attention all night, and then to dream of you for months afterward.

What Trump executed here was the context-dependent neg. You can’t tell a young hottie she’s in such great shape without it backfiring on you. It sounds supplicating, and compliments on a hot woman’s physical assets are generally poor form if bedding her is your goal. But if the context is right — say, the “girl” you’re addressing is the much older wrinkly wife of a closeted globalist gay man — then telling her she’s in great shape is the kind of subcutaneous unctuousness that implies one is surprised to see such a body on such an old lady. From that neg, the cratering of her self-perceived SMV will open a wide target to your seductive aims.

It also helps if your much younger and hotter wife is standing next to the granny, throwing the contrast in stark relief.

***

Related, Monsieur Maricon and Trump had an epic handshake battle that has the lib rag phag wags agog:

I’ve said it before, and this is further evidence confirming my suspicion: Maricon is a closeted homo (no straight man with options marries a woman who could be his elderly mother) who is way too try-hard about AMOG-ing the natural alpha male Trump.

But, biomechanics being what they are, Trump does respect a man who shows some strength, even if it’s precociously try-hard. Only two world leaders have shaken Trump’s hand with gusto: Maricon and Putin. And word is that Trump likes both men. He’s practically had a bromance with Maricon during this recent Parisian adventure.

The alpha male respects strength and despises weakness. The weak male (and female) is perceived by the strong male as a disloyalty threat, a rat, a snake, someone who would push their own White grandma under the bus. Maricon with his handshakes and vigorous mano-a-mano parrying with Trump has earned the God Emperor’s affinity. Is anyone surprised that Maricon, so obviously in gay homosexual love with Trump and eager to share his melodramatic masculine ardor with him, had recently dropped some realtalk about the exploding African population problem and how the West simply can’t let the dark continent hordes into their nations as a solution?

Either Maricon is a globalist shill working through some sexual identity issues, or he’s secretly /ourguy/ and the unlikely savior of France from the merchants of borderlessness. Time will tell. For now, enjoy the spectacle of the great man Trump single-handedly clothes-lining the Nü World Order.

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Gaming The “Nasty Woman”

As American girls are getting progressively more belligerent and screechy, a man should assume that on his sojourns into the dating trenches he will occasionally have need to parry an out-and-proud “nasty woman”.

mendo explains,

And we can dodge all the cunts wearing [the Nasty Woman] shirt.

Though I wonder if some will be snarky and try to bait a guy into a shit test (but I repeat myself) by bitching about men not manning up and liking nasty women.

No doubt many of these nasty women are generic sluts just looking for another faddish edge to shit test men and, in the course of playing the anti-coquette, inflate their girly egos. If you really want to hate fuck a woman wearing a Nasty Woman t-shirt, you could play along assuaging her ego while lacing your charm with enough bite to preserve your masculine dignity.

Nasty Gashy: “Real men like nasty women.”
Fashy Gatsby: “Depends where she does the nasty.”

FYI I’ve found that talking about a woman (whom you are directly addressing) in the third person is an amplifier of sexual tension. It subtly demeans her social status relative to yours, and it provides rhetorical room for sexy, sizzling teasing without crossing the anti-slut defense threshold that would shut her down to further sexploration.

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A cheeky wag commenting on a blog post titled “The Five Stages of HBD” offered the Game version of the post’s subject:

Stage-1 (Denial): “What is this cavemanish-sounding “Game” of which you speak? Actually, I’d rather you didn’t answer that.”

Stage-2 (Anger): “SEEEXIIISST!!!”

Stage-3 (Bargaining): “… but even if Game is real, it doesn’t mean anything, does it? You know, women like soft cuddly fat guys, right? Game only works on a certain kind of girl… (or something).”

Stage-4 (Depression): “Who could possibly have imagined that reality was so evil?”

Stage-5 (Acceptance): “Feminism really has been a mountain of dishonest garbage, hasn’t it? Guess it’s time to learn Game or die lonely in Mom’s basement playing World of Warcraft…”

Interestingly, that post was from 2013, so the Rude Word of Game has been percolating through the blogocultural consciousness for a while. Le Chateau Heartiste may be a world wide web outpost, but its ideas have traveled the globe enlightening minds and engorging…souls….from a time when the red pill was still a Matrix movie gimmick and not a manosphere or alt-Right buzzmeme.

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Now this is how you own the Kiss Cam. Pay attention at the 0:07 mark when he kisses his “girl”.

I laughed. She did too. That’s how you keep a girl hooked on you for the duration.

  1. defy her expectations
  2. be a charming jerkboy
  3. don’t be a boring beta

How does Beer Man compare to the previous Jumbotron master Ice Cream Alpha featured here on this blog?

It’s interesting to compare the two, because there’s a lot going on that’s similar but also differs, yet the reactions of their girls are the same (tingle torrent).

Beer Man is more try-hard. It’s obvious he’s hamming it up for dramatic effect. But try-hardness doesn’t hurt a man if his efforts are to amuse himself (and in this case the public) rather than appease the girl. Ice Cream Alpha is less acting out than reclining in the plush luxury of his assholery. He’s not putting on a show, he’s just chilling and playfully taunting his girl with the least amount of effort. (Playfully? Eh, maybe not so much. He looks dead serious about protecting the perimeter of his ice cream.)

That’s the main difference between the two men. The similarities though are obvious and go deeper than their chosen method of executing a triple lindy jerkboy maneuver. Neither man caves to public pressure. Neither man is interested in signs of approval from his girl. Neither man gives a crap what the watching world or their women think of their antics. Both men blast through their girls’ expectations, mixing unpredictability with cheeky teasing. By pushing their girls away, they have pulled their girls closer to them.

Abundance mentality is the right term for it. So is outcome independence. When you think you can score at will, you’ll act like the type of man who does score at will.

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A poem.

Trump’s Dread Game
Flirts on camera with cute dame
Balls of ZFG
Melania peeved?
No, that’s aggrieved betaboy steez
Melania cleaved
Later that eve
thunderous Trumpian marital glee
her still-smoldering flower reaved
And somewhere in a mood-lit bedroom
escapes a squeaky peep
a self-administered clit sweep
to put a reporterette to happy sleep.
Dread Game
It works!

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